SHIELD is really hard to remember
by Memory25
Summary: This is a story about an Agent making her way through the ranks in SHIELD. That's it. That's what it's about.
1. Chapter 1

**...Wow. SO I really need to stop thinking up new ideas-BUT THEY'RE SO FUN-No, Mem, you gotta stoppit-b-but...**

 **Ahem. Anyways.**

 **This has been sitting around REALLY LONG in my computer, so you can't say that I've been wasting time and whatnot. It's probably the closest to an original story I've got (except my _actual_ original story, but that's a different *coughcough* story) and frankly, I'm kind of spazzing about what to do with her. I mean. Yeah, I am basically an OC-insert writer, but I've realized how daunting it is to write a story from scratch. For those in the know, I have _not_ watched Agents of SHIELD. That's why this isn't a crossover. :X **

**Basically, this is my own vision of what SHIELD is like. Except I wrote this before Winter Soldier turned up and made over half of them HYDRA and then I'm tackling like the mother of all headaches trying to reconcile that with what I had planned before. So. Yeah. I've got a couple scenarios with the Avengers written up, but I kinda wanted to see how interesting I could make an OC's story in an original environment. :D**

* * *

Trainee Lianna Thyrell sighted down her rifle at the target for the fifth time. She took a calming breath and forced herself not to fidget in her position under the bushes. After all, she had done similar enough exercises back when she was in Military Academy.

She was _so_ going to make this shot.

 _She was._

Lianna was a member of the newest batch of badass-hopefuls-in-training. And once she passed this test, she was going to be one of said badasses.

 _She_ _ **was.**_

Hopefully.

 _No dammit, I'm going to pass this shit!_

Okay, so she knew she wasn't the smartest, or most skillful, or even those guys with that one extremely useful talent that would be getting brownie points from the get-go, but she sure as _hell_ was going to be one of the victors in this trial.

Really.

She just needed to make this shot clean and accurate.

No sweat or anything.

Right.

She was beginning to hyperventilate, but hey, not her first rodeo with that. She bit down on her lip viciously, glared down the length of her gun at the shuffling figure, and pulled the trigger.

The target crumpled to the ground, the impact loud and clear despite the distance.

The first rush of relief was sweet, but then came the nausea, and she puked in her mouth a little. The fake target had been scarily realistic, and there was even a splash of red beside it.

 _Will they take points for messiness? Headshots are instant, but there's the occasional side effect of splattering a bit of brain matter. It'd be obvious that it wasn't an accident. But they didn't say to make it look like one so…_

The thoughts raced through her mind before she could cut them off. The nausea tripled and she gagged. Again. She swallowed discreetly and breathed through her nose. No unfortunate accident on her first agent test at all. Nope.

"A little slow, Recruit Thyrell," a cool voice spoke in her ear dryly.

 _Oh gawd._

Her mouth was dry as the bottom of her stomach fell through.

 _Fuck._

Senior Agent _Coulson_ had been her mystery examiner.

 _Holee sheet,_ she squealed inwardly.

And then: _oh gawd, he saw the whole test. Oh gawd._

Everyone in SHIELD knew about Agent Coulson. Beside Director Fury and Deputy Director Hill, he was practically _the_ Legendary Agent. _Everyone,_ and really, _everyone,_ knew about how he had come back from the dead after being fucking _stabbed through the chest_ by the alien life form: Loki. It was the general consensus that the reason why the Senior Agent had survived boiled down to him being a stubborn BAMF. If it had been anyone else? Yeah, not happening.

Lianna whimpered a little as she dissembled her set-up and reported back for debriefing.

 _Oh god, oh god…_

As she stepped back into camp, she realized that everyone else had already made it back.

 _ **Oh gawd…**_

Their instructor gave her a raised eyebrow as she returned the false-bottomed case with the firearm to him. It was a familiar expression. A little bit like looking at scum on the bottom of your combat boots.

She wasn't sure what to make of it, since he'd been giving her that look since the beginning of training, but it never felt like good news.

She turned to her left and nearly squeaked as she came within an inch of a perfectly put together suit. And then she raised her eyes and _did_ squeak.

Agent Coulson was as unflappable as ever as he watched her cringe out of his path. The look he exchanged with her instructor could have just been a _baby-recruits-roll-eyes_ look or a _we-are-seriously-scraping-the-bottom-of-the-barrel-with-this-one_ look.

She _really, really_ hoped that it was the former.

But yeah, she scrambled into formation amidst silent glares, wishing she could just disappear into a hole.

Instructor Devin definitely saw, but he opted to ignore it, as he had all the other times it had happened. SHIELD was definitely not for the fainthearted. She was really getting the _dog eat dog world_ and _don't be a pussy_ vibe here.

But she hadn't come this far just to back down. So she kept quiet. You were only allowed to raise a ruckus if you were valuable enough. And infighting was definitely not justified when you weren't even officially in the program yet.

"Alright, we'll be calling names," Instructor Devin said matter-of-factly, "Those called, stand at the right. Jameson."

The aforementioned Nicholas Jameson gave an obnoxious fist pump as he strode comfortably away from the group. Lianna felt her lips threaten to slip downwards from the carefully neutral horizontal line as one of her biggest tormentors was called out. Jameson was a bigot and a sexist to boot. He spoke grandly of the glory and reputation of being an agent like he was already one and sniped at Lianna for being the only female to have indicated Assaultas her choice of division.

That she went through Military Academy and had gone through virtually as much training as he had in the Marines was moot.

Well fuck him, Lianna wasn't going to be one of the girls who stuck to Intelligence or Medical or the other non-field divisions. She wanted to be _out_ there making a difference and helping to keep what tremulous peace there was in the world outside of alien invasions and rumored returns of HYDRA. Besides, she wasn't any good sitting in an office or nursing people—her bedside manner was decidedly _not_ pro-health.

Nearly half the class had already been called, she noted, feeling dread pool in her gut. Devin continued to read out a few more names before he came to an abrupt halt that sent her stomach crashing.

She hadn't been called.

Oh gawd.

And there was that familiar tightness in her chest again. _Fuck._ She tried to breathe properly (and inconspicuously) through her mouth.

 _Nope, not happening,_ her lungs reported. _No go._

"This test," the instructor stated blandly after a short pause, "was a very simple test." He surveyed the makeshift camp dispassionately and continued, "It was a very simple scenario." Pause. "Each of you were given a mission to approach a target undetected and, from a suitable position, eliminate it." Pause. "All of you succeeded in the last point." Pause. "Some quicker than others."

Lianna felt her ears burning from that remark. It wasn't exactly pointed at her, but it did highlight her performance. She felt like an Example. No-one was undisciplined enough to snigger, but there were a few side-eyes.

"However, not all of you succeeded in the first. And fewer in the second."

Second? There were only two— _oh_ location, right. Right.

Hey, at least she got it without anyone explaining it to her again.

The people who were called out exchanged confident smiles.

"This is the first test, and so we are not being particularly severe."

Well, that explained why slightly more than half the class had passed at least. There had been 40 of them and it looked like only 23 would be making it.

Just not her.

"Which is why we did not penalize points for speed."

…What?

Instructor Devin was a seasoned Agent and had a clearance level of Class 4-Delta. He'd been a field agent in Espionage before he decided that he would deign to share his experience with others. He had a poker face carved out of stone and an excellent bland, deadpanned monotone. However, the last sentence had had a very apparent Dramatic Pause.

To his credit, the next sentence was, again, absolutely even.

"Congratulations recruits whose names who were not called. You pass and are now entering the first phase of SHIELD training."

Lianna felt her knees tremble when the words registered. Suddenly, she was having a reverse-hyperventilation, in that she had too much air in her lungs and needed to expel it in great heaving gasps. Around her, similar actions were carried out. The recruits on the right looked thunderstruck.

Relief and joy and her old friend nausea bubbled from her throat. She could feel it threatening to expel another _accident_ again. Urk.

…first phase of SHIELD training.

Wait, so the previous sessions weren't even _actual agent training?!_

She pressed a hand to her chest and _shuddered._

xXXx

Lianna Diane Thyrell was born in New Orleans, Louisiana to Aiden and Linda Thyrell, one of the actual Irish living in the Irish Channel. Unfortunately, that had little bearing on her growth, seeing as her father, despite growing up in a traditional Irish family, had decided to fully embrace America's declaration of freedom. His daughter, subsequently, grew up with the adamant promise that she would be the only person deciding her future.

It wasn't the easiest promise to keep when she announced that she wanted to go to Military Academy instead of the rather impressive number of university options she'd received. It became even more difficult when she was picked up by an unnamed organization for her zealous, outstanding effort. _And she went with them with open arms._

Sometimes her parents wished their daughter was just a little less strong-willed (stubborn).

Lianna grew up speaking English, but learning her mother (or father) language at her Seanathair's knee, which basically resulted in fluid English, but somewhat stuttering Gaelic. She could read the latter decently, but her tongue twisted itself in knots on the spoken word.

A quiet and awkward bookworm, Lianna had never been popular. In fact, it could be said that she was an outcast in school. Bright, inquisitive, and able to speak more easily with her teachers than her peers, she was shunned by her fellow classmates in typical genius fashion. Except that she wasn't quite smart enough to merit the title. A fact that fuelled the malicious glee of the populace as her grades started to falter in high school.

However, for all her slightly-above-average-smarts, it was her stubbornness that defined the girl. It was in the way she pushed herself through everything. Never developing the thick skin that was inherent to high school survival, she made do with sheer mule-headedness. When her grades started flagging, that same stubbornness began to characterize her work ethic.

Pushing herself to put in double, and sometimes triple, the amount of effort others did, she regained and maintained her star pupil status through the years and eventually graduated with flying colours.

That same stubbornness carried her through Military Academy, where she faced sexism and harassment from both peers and instructors.

Unfortunately, as she was learning, being a BAMF generally required more than just over-the-top enthusiasm and willpower. SHIELD was a place for the crème de la crème and there _were_ actually people who were naturally good in _everything_ , from taking down an opponent, disabling a bomb (or exploding it), to hacking into the Pentagon.

And that wasn't all.

An Agent was _more_ than just the typical spy. _More_ than the typical Army grunt. _More_ than the typical tech geek. They had to have basic working knowledge of all related fields (which was, she realized, _everything_ ) and at least three languages.

She was still stumbling through her Gaelic, even if her written was above average. And her assigned third language was _German._

 _Why_ German? Even if her tongue survived, her throat wouldn't.

But Lianna hadn't made it this far for nothing. She had frigging _passed_ the first test—against expectations—and now she was yet another inch closer to her goal.

Boo-yah.

xXXx

Being an agent (okay, _probationary agent_ ) was a twenty-four hour job, Lianna realised. It was something you lived and breathed and sucked up with all your might. There was a lot of procedure and non-disclosure and red-tape to learn, and different martial arts (for different body types) and firearms (Jesus, and she thought she'd been decently prepared with extra electives) and interrogation techniques.

Oh, and probies were apparently the equivalent of unpaid interns. All the menial work, all the basic data-entry, all the coffee-carrying and sheet-stapling and hotline-receiving-transfer-calling, were done by them. None had set foot on the mythical Helicarrier, but each and every one was intimately familiar with every shiny, tiled inch of their campus. There was a weekly schedule for janitor work. And paperwork.

Frankly, Lianna would take the mopping and sweeping over paperwork any day.

Having only minimal clearance (0-BA) meant that every single 'report' they received was [redacted] beyond measure. Even weapon commissions forms for _bullets_ had [redacted] everywhere in bright, obnoxious red ink.

It was a little discouraging to admit that she was in over her head.

Also a little more discouraging to find that even in this place where oddities were the norm, she was still set apart.

Oh, she got along decently with a few people in her batch, but she wasn't tight with anyone, and she could barely exchange two words with any of their instructors and was also thus not personally familiar with them.

The other _real_ agents? Forget it.

And there were no roommates here. SHIELD was apparently rich enough to provide single rooms for every probie.

She was a little disappointed about that.

Lianna sighed into her coffee as she tapped on her tablet to enter yet another weapons commission form (38-BII-Sigma [redacted]) into the system. From what she heard from the techies in class, it was separate from the *actual* SHIELD database—which made sense, but wow, the paranoia—and attempts to hack it had been…well, let's just say that they had their asses handed to them. And their _physical_ asses handed to them with a lecture of _this isn't a movie, we don't reward insubordination here, newbies._

It had been vaguely terrifying in a _wow, I'm with the_ _ **real**_ _badasses now_ way.

She tapped her tablet again and opened up this week's reading assignments. Immediately, tabs began popping up, reaching a total of 15 before the first one enlarged to a slightly more reasonable reading size.

Resisting the urge to drop her head against the desk, she took another long drought of caffeine before squaring her shoulders. She was _not_ going to be defeated by words.

xXXx

It had been two months since the harrowing First Test, and Lianna was still hanging on (by the skin of her teeth). In a single month, she had expanded her knowledge of what seemed to be a bit of everything, and had even managed to become acceptably fluent in Gaelic. German was still trundling along, but it wasn't _too_ bad, although Portuguese had also been piled onto her already staggering workload.

A couple of her peers had discreetly disappeared, and the class now numbered a terrifyingly small fourteen. Of the fourteen, three of those, including herself, were women. And of the fourteen, only one other person was striving for the Assault division. Ian McAllen, a thirty-four year old veteran from the Special Air Forces.

The batch had gotten much closer after going through the hell that was SHIELD training. Even Lianna's awkwardness and horrible social skills were nothing in the face of the _utter devastation_ that they had been subject to. It was impossible to survive alone here, and no amount of stubbornness would have been able to tide her through. All of them had sought each other's help more than once, be it a difficult tactics problem, swapping janitor shifts, or braving the dusty Probie Archives for information.

However, even then, there were clear divisions between the, well, divisions. Intelligence probies stuck together while Espionage were practically glued at the hip. Tech Support? In the corners getting their geek on.

In the same vein, she and Ian were just as tight. It was a camaraderie borne from twenty kilometer, full-kit marches, survival-training in the Forests-of-Fear, Deserts-of-Doom, and Mountains-of-Misery, as well as long nights spent cracking their heads over strategic scenarios they were pretty sure would usually require more than two people. Sure, he never got her movie references (which she suspected were getting outdated from lack of TV and Internet) and she couldn't share his war stories (which were decidedly gruesome), but they were united by the shared terror that was Assault training.

And today, it was time for yet another trial. A second 'official' test. It was a test of teamwork, made harder by the fact that they would only be allowed to work with each other. The respective division probies had been _expressly_ separated for this particular trial, and Lianna could only imagine what the others were going through.

She traded freaked-out looks with Ian as they were handed the itinerary for their test. It was much, much longer than even the full kits they'd had to pack for survival-training. The scenario was not provided, even though they were given leeway to pack what they thought would help…which wasn't reassuring in the least. Just reading the list made her want to bring the whole armory with her.

She nudged her partner, "Think we can pack an extra person?"

"If only," he muttered, still staring at the sheet in his hands. "I want to bring grenades."

"Frags?"

"I wish," he admitted sullenly, "But more likely Less than Lethals."

"I'm bringing two BFIGs."

"Yeah, okay. I'll carry one more and two flash."

"I'm bringing my knives."

"I _still_ can't believe knifework is your best."

"I still can't believe that _paperwork_ is your best."

"Well, war generates a lotta it…"

"…And you were a Major…yeah, yeah…"

"I didn't sit on my ass signing shit all day if that's what you're implying!"

"Yeah, yeah…"

As they bantered, Lianna shifted closer and lowered her arm, fingers dancing nimbly in a myriad of patterns. Simultaneously, Ian angled himself so that he faced away from the cafeteria door, eyes fixed firmly on her face.

They traded a series of looks before nodding and heading to the armory.

xXXx

This is the part where Lianna has to close the book, because this is the part that is _redacted._ Nobody can get anything out of anybody about their respective trials, and that is because it's _severely redacted._ There was plenty of standard tried-and-true fare, but also plenty of strange and cruel things that were obviously tailor-made for the individual.

 _(Extremely tailor-made. So tailor-made it was snugger than her body armour.)_

So. Nobody wants to talk about it okay? Maybe it's true that hardship creates character, and maybe that's why every superhero has some sort of backstory, but Lianna is pretty sure this is the character-building thing that every Agent will remember. They may not have a tragic family background or no childhood or whatever it is that makes heroes, but they _do_ have their Agent Exams and it's as good as, alright? No need to throw around the respective traumas. She doesn't want to Talk About It.

Neither does Ian.

So that's that.

She's now Agent Thyrell of Assault Division, Level one, clearance class 1-Eta.

…And she beat Ian by two classes, take _that._

xXXx

* * *

 **Idk if anyone has figured out the ranking system in my version of SHIELD, but I'm not in a hurry to expose it. XD There's a joke in the clearance level for the Probational Agents, so see if anyone can decipher that. XDDD I've actually already spelled it out somewhere, but you've got to squint a little.**

 **Coulson being resurrected is like...an open secret in SHIELD I suppose. In my version at least. Idk about canon. I'm pretty sure that there's quite a bit of locker talk especially between female agents because they're mainlining the Intelligence divisions. And the Medical wards obviously, so anyone with whatever injuries can and _will_ be talked about during break times. **

**I have the BIGGEST PROBLEM WRITING FIGHTS. Also military ops. Because no military background here, and I'm kind of dying trying to pick up some. Ughhhh. Help?**

 **Memory25**


	2. Babyvengers

**Hi? I'm still alive? I guess a lot of people were wondering where I've been, as well as whether I've abandoned all my stories. Well keep calm! I'm still working on them (ALL OF THEM), and it's just been lack of inspiration and RL. I'm working now! Haha. As a part-time writer, which kind of means that I'm juiced out of writing energy by the end of the day.**

 **This isn't actually a new chapter, coz I've written this a really long time ago. But I figured that I should at least put something up now, so that there's at least some signs of life hahaha!**

 **To those who don't know, this story is actually my attempt at somewhat original storywriting. There's supposed to be more Agent focus than Avengers, but this is one of the few short "arcs" that Lianna goes through that involves that Avengers. :)**

* * *

Lianna wondered if she had somehow done something wrong in this universe. She was sure she'd managed to balance the people she did harm onto with the lives she saved by doing said harm, give or take an inch or two. She'd made sure to read all the mission parameters that she received, and once she made level five, she'd exercised her right to turn down the ones that were suspect. Well, it wasn't a surefire method of making sure her hands remained relatively clean, but every agent knew that some things just have to be done.

But she'd been doing okay so far, running assault missions and playing substitute handler for the agents who were still recovering from the Loki Incident, even volunteering extra time at Control despite her distaste for it to help take some of the load off her boss. She'd been a good senior agent, giving advice to her juniors, managing her team with an iron fist, filing all her paperwork within the unofficial grace period.

And avoiding the Avengers.

All of SHIELD was in complete agreement in regards to the superhero taskforce that their director had conceived. They were to be avoided at all cost, lest they be pulled into the equally ridiculous and dangerous antics that the superheroes seemed to attract like flies that squishy, normal humans weren't meant to withstand (It was general consensus that Agent Philip Coulson, Director Fury and Deputy Director Hill were considered superhuman). Anyone in contact with them for more than a few minutes a day would spend the next week looking over their shoulder or staying in a small group of particularly well-armed colleagues.

Not more than four, because large groups of agents attracted strange forces as well (the most common being a supervillain strong enough to render all their hard work and training moot), though the trouble generated by that was still outstripped by Avenger-caused trauma. They'd rather an entire mob of agents than a single Avenger, thank you very much.

(Black Widow and Hawkeye were already trouble magnets before they joined the team, a little more avoidance was barely noticeable.)

She was one of the few agents on the helicarrier who had managed to avoid the disaster-prone group until now, even competing for the record. This, she had achieved by arranging to be either at the engine room or the mission's office or some other equally mundane section of the carrier when the (unofficial) Avengers Alarm was given (a quick AA muttered over the l5sIC comm-frequency or pop-up alert). And since she had made level five before the Avengers had come together in an official capacity, she'd been able to duck guard duty around the corridors leading to the Director's office. Instead, she'd taken as many missions outside the country as possible until the dust had settled.

(Many of her peers had complained bitterly, especially after Bruce Banner hulked out in two meetings and nearly pureed a baker's dozen of them, but hey, someone had to keep track of the assorted ex-Soviet mad scientists in Siberia.)

But it looked like her karma balance had finally decided to tip the other way in the most extreme manner.

Guess she really had been the axe murderer her brother always accused her of being in her past life.

xXXx

Senior Agent Lianna Thyrell had been on her way to the Assault Division after her lunch break when a shout snagged her attention. Although shout was a vague term because the pitch of the voice and the length of the incredibly piercing exclamation was more suited to a 'shriek', but it couldn't have because there were no shrieking people allowed on the helicarrier. And by extension, it meant that she went into kill-or-capture mode, unclipped her sidearm, and smashed the glass of a conveniently located munitions box with her other hand to dig out the submachine gun that she favored but could not get permission to carry.

(Incidentally, she'd memorized all the locations of the munitions boxes containing submachine guns.)

What followed was a somewhat confusing tussle, where she disabled seven junior agents less gently than she preferred and found herself with two miniature human beings dangling from each arm, struggling to escape. (Children were her exception, as was with most Agents, and even then, the line had been foggy more times than she'd liked)

She stared.

She lifted the less squalling one up to eye level, and then turned to one Agent Philip (call me Phil) Coulson questioningly.

The exasperated legend released a somewhat familiar sigh of equal parts aggravation and relief, but made no move to retrieve her cargo. Instead, he gestured for her to follow him to the director's office. Seeing as he had not given her the kill signal (or the hostage signal, or the interrogation signal, or the 'render them unconscious' signal affectionately termed the ' _Quiet_ , Please' signal), she hoisted them securely under her arms so that the dark-haired one would stop choking on his collar, and followed.

By the time they saw the door of the director's office, dark-haired mini-human numero uno had recovered enough to begin swearing in an admittedly un-human-below-certain-ages way. Senior Agent Thyrell was beginning to get the creeping feeling of certain doom up her spine, the same way poison ivy would wrap itself around…things.

So sue her, she was a SHIELD agent, she wasn't exactly paid to make flowery (pardon the pun) descriptions.

When she stepped into the office that she had so far managed to avoid except for the times she had to accept official notice for her promotions and saw the four other knee-high life forms, she knew she was screwed.

When she suddenly took note of the exact _shade_ of dark hair on the life form under her right arm and the blonde tufts peeking from her left, it was all she could do to drop them on the floor in a way that didn't break them and (attempt to) flee.

Agent Coulson had (wisely) barred the doorway.

"No," she uttered, sending him a pleading look. It was a look she did not use often, although it was, as all weapons of Agents, deadly. Unfortunately, she was a little rusty in its execution, and no match for someone who used to handle the wily Black Widow.

The returning gaze was not reassuring.

"Agent Thyrell," Director Fury boomed, "I have a job for you."

Lianna Thyrell, a senior agent of SHIELD at the relatively young age of twenty-five, yelled "NO!" at her commander-in-chief, shoulder-checked a mildly astonished Superior Agent Coulson, and fled down the long and twisted hallway with the butt of a submachine gun dragging on the ground.

xXXx

"Y'know, Coulson," Fury rubbed his temples, "I'm trying to _keep_ most of our loyal, competent staff. Not have them quit while running away screaming."

Philip Coulson smiled wryly, "We let her dodge them long enough. Besides, it's best to start off with _baby steps."_

"…You. Fucking. Didn't."

xXXx

So. There was good news and bad news.

The good news was that…the Avengers were still in possession of their adult (or as close to matured as Stark could be) minds. Which meant it wasn't so much a true de-aging as a _physical_ de-aging. Which was bad enough, but in some ways, she would call it a blessing.

That tied in with the bad news.

The bad news was that she, Senior Agent Lianna Thyrell of (newly christened) formerly mythical Level Six clearance, had been tasked with the care of said miniaturized-Avengers until they either changed back or grew up. Whichever came first.

And yes, SHIELD had plans for if they had to take the long route. _And_ they included her. (And a bump up to *Level Seven*, but she didn't know that yet.)

So, two pieces of bad news then.

Well fuck.

xXXx

"No," Lianna told Stark when he turned towards her. It's the same monosyllabic reply she's been giving him since she started the first babysitting job she's had since she was twelve. She's never actually _met_ Stark in person before this, but she knows better than to let him railroad her into something that would probably end up in explosions and fury. And possibly Fury.

He twists his mouth into an ugly—uglier scowl, the darkness of it sitting uncomfortably in the crook of a prepubescent boy's lips. Tony Stark was a handsome child, not that the old press photos of Howard Stark's son hadn't proven that. In the hour she'd been denying him voice, he'd become increasingly belligerent.

"I could have needed to go to the toilet," he spoke at her, voice vicious and laced with an old resentment he probably hadn't intended to reveal, "I could have been hungry." He glared at the side of her head as she tapped on her phone.

"Stark," she frowned, "you are an adult. You are not _actually_ a child. If you needed food you could have gotten some yourself from the pantry. And you don't need permission from me to go to the bathroom."

There was a collective wince from the rest of the Avengers as they watched the ensuing scene. Bruce Banner was taking deep breaths to calm himself. Damnit.

Lianna turned to the rest of the superhero team and addressed them, "I am not actually here to take care of you like a nanny, but protect you from being targeted. I am your _bodyguard."_ She gave a brief nod to the two other Agents. Despite her avoidance of the Avengers, no Agent level 4 and onwards has avoided a mission with the Special Agents. She had the usual understanding with them and they co-operated very professionally with her on ops.

"I'm pretty sure I could modify the suit to fit my current size," Stark bared his teeth and growled.

"I'm pretty sure you would be able to protect yourself more effectively when you have done so," she nodded, before returning to tapping on her phone. Some of her junior agents were sending her reports on their surveillance missions regarding the circumstances surrounding the Avengers' de-aging.

When a minute passed with no further protest, she took a wary peek. Stark was still glaring at her but it had mostly powered down to annoyance and…confusion? She spared a look at the Hulk and was relieved to find him breathing normally.

Stark opened his mouth again.

"No."

xXXx

Another two hours of denial, some tiptoeing around a stressed Banner, dodging the thankfully less coordinated Black Widow and Hawkeye, Lianna was finally freed from maximum security scrutiny (sadly blowing her Avengers contact time out of the water) and allowed to…follow the Avengers back to their tower.

She cursed her luck, her karma, and whatever deity was at fault for this travesty. She was going to be _killed_ if this continued on. As _fodder._ She, a level five (six…whatever that meant) agent. _Fucking hell._

Agent Coulson had told her to collect all necessities before leaving, which meant that she was as good as moving to the tower.

She probably wouldn't even last a week.

 _Fuck._

xXXx

"She's not going to last a week," Tony whispered furiously to mini-Steve. He scowled at the memory of the stonewalling agent and resolved to drive her from his tower. Maybe she wasn't on the same level as his old governess (who had _governesses_ even back then?) but she had still grated on his nerves in a similar way. The constant on-the-phone thing brought back memories of being ignored or locked in his room. He'd never thought he'd ever feel the same way again.

Usually, he'd be going for the alcohol, but he wasn't _entirely_ comfortable being drunk within the vicinity of one of Fury's brainwashed cronies, and so he didn't. Instead, he headed towards his workshop.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your business," he sniped without hesitation. As he walked down the steps, a shadow fell over him.

He really, really hated it when people loomed over him.

"And what do you think you're doing?" He snapped at the shadow.

"I'm going with you to make sure you don't get hurt overestimating your strength or height while engaging in experiments that may cause irreparable hurt to a child's body."

He'd been ready with a rant at the first four words, but that had petered out a little at the rest. It was, he supposed, logical, but he could manage just _fine._ He'd done so without someone watching over him and it didn't make sense to have someone do so just because of a little body shrinkage. And she'd had to be all reasonable when she'd said that.

"You are not going anywhere near my workshop!" He exclaimed, stamping his foot to emphasize the point, "I can manage just fine by myself and even if—" he stopped himself before he could continue, because therein lay stuff he wasn't going to touch. Nope.

"Is there another person whom you can accept in your workshop, then?" she asked…well, just asked. There was no other meaning or insinuation to be gleaned from that. He could respect that. Somewhat.

Still, "I don't _need anyone else_ in _my own fucking workshop!"_

"Tony…" and there was Bruce wringing his hands and shuffling his feet, "I think it's better if you had someone there. I saw the footage of the Mark VI test flight…"

He gaped. He felt _betrayed._ He thought they were _bros._ "I don't need anyone there! She's not coming into my workshop!"

"Tony…" now Captain Fucking America was joining in. Great.

He threw his hands up, "She's not coming and that's FINAL!"

xXXx

"Fucking fuckety fucking _fuck!"_ Tony bellowed (it was actually more like a howl) as he stomped around his workshop. He usually felt a lot more at ease surrounded by all his tech, but the fucking agent had slipped through the door before JARVIS could close it in her face. He needed to fix that.

She didn't reply, so he was free to bang and clang his way through a couple of old bots before finally cooling down enough to work on the Mark X. Except that he didn't quite trust her enough to work on his suit in front of her.

He finally flung his wrench away in disgust when it was apparent that nothing was going to be done while Agent Lianna Thyrell was in his workshop.

This was not FAIR!

xXXx

As Tony Stark's rampage petered out, Lianna continued to give support through her phone. She couldn't give instructions as quickly with her comm—she wasn't supposed to talk about missions outside the Helicarrier—but like every Agent, she made do. The Tower was probably capturing every text she sent, but for now, she was running low priority missions, and they were _really_ short on experienced staff.

Being as her repertoire included infocomm skills, she'd managed to wrangle an agreement from the director to allow her to run missions whilst babysitting. The fact was, unless there was a big-time villain intending on taking over the world, Stark Tower (or rumour had it, _Avengers_ Tower) was one of the safest places in America. Sure, it was pretty much target number one to all supervillains at large, but Stark had turned it into a veritable fortress ever since Loki.

In some ways, she supposed it was comforting, despite the near guarantee that she would be one of the first dead should something big enough hit. And at least she'd be able to send Command some intel of their enemy before she kicked the bucket. She hoped.

"Are you sure they should go that way?" Stark piped up smugly, drawing up a hologram of the texts she'd sent as well as camera shots of one of the ongoing missions. She sighed, continuing to text even as he fiddled around with her files. Confidential? Very. Too valuable to land in enemy hands? Extremely. Something Tony Stark wouldn't be able to find out hacking into the system? Unlikely.

Well, Coulson had encouraged her to keep as professional an attitude as possible, so that meant no talking about confidential missions with Stark, even if he already knew everything. She did doublecheck the route just in case she'd missed something, but suddenly, her blackberry was typing by itself.

"Stark," she warned. This wasn't the time to show-off, there were lives at stake here.

"They're going the wrong way," he insisted, "There's a better one!"

She shook her head frantically, "Stark! You don't know how to run a mission! Stop it! They could die if you confuse them!"

"But I _know_ a safer route," he pointed at a layout, "Look! If they go here and here they'd get out quicker!"

Her eyes widened, "Did you just tell them to go there?! Stark! I'm telling them to go around it because it's too obvious! It's open space and there'll be snipers!"

Iron Man blinked, "Erm. No. I mean. Not yet. I haven't sent the text yet."

"Erase it," she demanded, "I need to reply quickly or they'll get boxed in."

"Okay," he nodded nervously, fiddling with the display, "Okay. Yeah. Done."

She went back to typing furiously on her blackberry. From the prompts she'd gotten, the team had had three narrow escapes within the time she'd spent talking. She swore when one of them reported a movement-impairing injury. This was supposed to be a simple mission!

Thankfully, she managed to get the team to the extraction point without more hassle or casualties, but they had suffered injuries that would need more than a few days' rest which meant yet another team having to take up the already overflowing workload. She sighed in frustration.

"Stark," she wasn't quite sure how _not_ to snap at him. Coulson had taken her aside beforehand to caution against being too severe with Stark due to his childhood experience. Despite retaining his adult mind, his immature body wasn't really equipped to handle complex emotions. That meant it was less able to handle stress and trauma. She was sympathetic, honestly, but he'd nearly killed an entire team of Agents for the sake of proving his superior…intellect? Technology? She didn't really fucking care.

"I'm _sorry_ , okay?" He hunched into himself, looking very much the small child awaiting a beating, "It was just a small mistake. I won't do it again and I'll even make you a better communicator. I'll tell JARVIS not to interfere again."

" _Stark,"_ she sighed, his file stated he tended to resort to material bribery to fix social problems. He was _the_ definition of 'fix things with money'. She also knew that he was the type to beat himself up over mistakes, which really made her…scolding or whatever redundant. And he was very nearly in tears too, being unable to control himself at his current physical age.

She frowned. He most likely already knew the consequences of his actions. Stark fooled around with a lot of things, but when it came to human lives he was extremely careful. She didn't really need to drive in the fact that lives had been at stake when he could easily figure it out himself.

"Just don't do it again," she said quietly, returning to her phone. It was a bitch texting instructions, but she already had another mission to run.

Stark stared at her for a long moment, before turning back to his desk, mumbling under his breath.

xXXx

"What's this?" She stared at the thing in his hands as she sent the last text of instructions for her mission handover. She'd gotten 15 missions done so far, pretty alright for someone who'd been doing it via text messages and only a memorized layout of each location. She was an Assault Agent, so honestly, 15 was pretty good. She didn't make Level 5 for nothing, after all.

(But if she'd had a comm and been at HQ…)

Stark scowled, but tried to push the phone-and-earpiece set at her, "I said I'd make you a better communicator, right? Here."

She blinked. Truthfully, there was no reason not to take it. He already knew of all the missions she'd been running, and if someone could hack Stark Tech then the helicarrier would already have been shot down.

Furthermore, according to his psych evaluation, Tony Stark was the type who would push the more he was curious and nothing made him more curious than when someone refused him. So, the best way to go about it would be to accept it but not really use it. (Probably submit it to HQ so that it could either be reproduced or given to someone with higher priority…Or just confiscated. She ignored the twinge of _mine!_ )

"Thank you," she nodded. She took the things and slipped it into her civilian-esque leather jacket. Leather was good, it was not too restrictive and durable. She checked her issued phone for any updates before putting it in a different pocket.

Stark scowled even more, but didn't say anything.

He tried to stomp away again, but it was lunchtime, so she dragged him to the dining area where the rest of the Avengers were gathering.

* * *

 **And that's all, folks! Welp, for now at least. I haven't really planned out what else to write for this, but this won't be the last of Lianna! And yes, it's not in chronological order, coz I'm still figuring out how to write ordinary Agent-life. Hahaha! As for the reviewers whom I haven't replied, I'm sooooo sorry! I do my best to reply asap, but again, RL, and I pretty much forget what I see after (coz I kind of chuck everything ff related into a different folder) and then I forget whether I've replied already lololol.**

 **Memory25**


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